In Rome that January day, not a trace

Of fog or smog, that special moment between

Morning and noon, “cuore del matino,”

As the Italian Romans say, so clear

 

That a tourist would not be surprised

To hear the squeaky wheels of Caesar’s

Chariot rolling over the grass, up

And through the “esquiline” sand.

 

Entering, I saw the gate’s rust—heard the squeak

Of the metal entrance bolts, so I followed

The arrow to find John Keat’s lofty, oval

Headstone, two-century-weather-worn,

 

With his last, great line carved in below,

Lamenting that the world would soon forget,

So best carve it in stone—that his name

Was “writ in water,” and, as I pondered the brief

 

Life of poets and the mystery of history,

My eyes wandered left and saw the rising grass

Above Percy Shelley lying under Roman soil.

Clandestinely, quick, I took a phone’s photograph

 

Of first Keat’s stone, then both, and as I backed

Away from the buzzing crowd, I checked to see

My camera—saw Keat’s stone and spirit dwelling in

Peace, doing just fine and content with a crisp,

 

Clear image on that cool, autumn morning,

But when I scrolled further and checked

For Shelley’s picture, I saw a faded, blob

Of light. I, unsure of paranormal reaction,

 

Still, I felt a chill running down my spine,

Glancing up at those Italian pines and yews,

Wondering if Shelley’s spirit might stubbornly

Be out and lingering about, he asserting still

 

That poets must be the true legislators of this

Historically-troubled-war-weary world, an earth’s

Terrain, where a fire always burns somewhere,

Sometimes to warm and cook, but also destroying

 

Nature’s energy hoping to recur with spring,

And inevitably falling back into historical paradox.

Percy Shelley would be, I thought, were he standing

Here in Rome today, aghast, that some called

 

“Poetry” could be written—even published

With an “AI,” be they lines of English or

Italian or « alien » and he, perhaps irritated

At my casually photographing cemeteries. So

 

I wandered back to my rented Vespa scooter,

Leaving mid-morning with lament, thinking that

Shelley’s grave could be easily stepped on, so

Easily photographed with my science-fiction

Device, an I-phone suddenly trembling in my hand.